


The Devil is not as black as he is painted.

by TiredTree



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Comfort, Episode AU: s03e07 Digestivo, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, M/M, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29675376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredTree/pseuds/TiredTree
Summary: AU Digestivo , Will and Hannibal are restrained side by side in an armored van being taken to Verger's Estate. Surrounded by four armed men, Hannibal's sincerity surprises not only them, but Will Graham himself.The idea for this fic comes from a scene in the movie 'The Old Guard' (2020) on Netflix, directed by Gina Prince-Bythewood. Dialogue from this scene was used and adjusted to fit Hannibal.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 23
Kudos: 155





	The Devil is not as black as he is painted.

**Author's Note:**

> There are no 'spoilers', essentially, but the scene in question is beautifully acted and some of the dialogue is used, so please take that into consideration if you would like to see it first before going any further. Please enjoy!

The air on this day is pleasant, a humid warmth spreads through the wind like a blanket on a downy bed, the sheets beneath cool to the touch as a breeze follows, quelling the heat. Tall wisps of straw and grass whisk by as an armoured van made to resemble a small meat truck tuts down the lonely road to the Verger estate, carrying dangerous cargo.

It feels like minutes ago Hannibal had been in Italy with Will, resigned to the thought that he would once more have to consume the only person who ever forced him into vulnerability, into the carelessness that so often comes with love. He had lifted the saw so quickly, almost unceremoniously, knowing that if he did not do what he intended now he may not be able to. The soft curl of Will’s hair did slow him, he placed his hand in a wild warm mess of brunette, and though the saw pressed against his skin drawing blood, he did finally hesitate. Jack may not have thought he had. Will may not have thought he had. But he cupped Will’s skull like a good book, fingers fixed on a page, refusing to turn it as he reread a passage he particularly cared for. One that made his eyes swell.

Jack’s screams were loud, the blood that splattered his face warm, but he looked only at Will in that moment. He didn’t pray that he would be stopped, merely hoped, and expected that he would.

The journey to the Verger Estate makes him grateful for it. Every second that ticks by, a small fissure of pleasure grows in his belly considering the new opportunity they have been afforded. Another chance, for him perhaps, for the both of them. Hell nipped at their heels closely, but demons underestimate how slick the devil is at squirming from the confines of his own cell.

Bumpy is the road on their ride, potholes from trucks and heavy equipment in this spot of the country littering the pavement as plentiful as the rocks around it. It rouses him frequently from any comfortable position he could find himself in. Wakes him from the minutes of sleep he allowed himself to have. He drifts, awake and asleep, asleep and awake.

Four men sit around them. They are dressed casually enough that he wonders, should they not have their guns, it would take very little for him to dispatch them. But they do have their guns. When his eyes open wearily, before closing once more, he can see a barrel pointed at him. Knowing it is not soon to be over, but soon to begin, rouses him finally from the fatigue that pulls at him. His skull aches deeply, the occipital bone bruised from a heavy blow that had put him under, blackening the edges of his vision as he saw them pulling at Will. Both hands and feet cuffed, he notes. He and Will sit on the floor of the truck, products transported for Mason Verger to delight in.

Hannibal shakes his head, righting his body and pulling his knees up. The sound of the gun focusing on him, straightening and steadying is deafening to his ears. They had allowed themselves to be lax, in the wake of his injuries.

He lifts his head finally; he can feel the heat of Will next to him, but he can hear no sounds of movement. No rustling, no harshed breaths. Will lay with his head to Hannibal’s feet, at the feet of all the men, on his side with his face in the dirt of the floor. His hands cuffed beneath his chest, his face still and unmoving. His breath is small and quiet, nearly not there. Blood from his forehead spills down the paleness of his skin, almost masking him in it’s darkness. In any other place, Hannibal would spend long hours looking at the beauty of it. If he could, he would trail his fingers through it while it was still hot.

His wrists feel like they were wrapped in lead; he lifts them gently and pushes them against Will’s lifeless shoulder. Just a brush, quick and deft. Will does not stir at all. His body simply moves with Hannibal’s touch and falls back into the place physics deemed it be.

An armed man grabs at his shoulder, quickly pulling him back from touching even after his contact with Will had ended. He sits back, looking at the man beside him, coughing and wincing at a blow that must have been dealt to his lungs at some point. Hannibal purses his lips, the thin skin of his nostrils flaring. Will had been handled roughly while he was not conscious to see. He had been beaten enough that the combination of Hannibal’s kiss to his skull and drugs in his system brought him to a place of weakness his body could not tolerate. The thought of it makes his mouth twitch, upper lip curling as he watches Will’s placid face. Any harm he had sent to Will, by anyone else’s hand, Will fought against. Will fought and killed with a beautiful naturalness that he could equate to a God slaying a beast. A fighter spilling blood in the sand. Will would cut them down and bring Hannibal their heads. Any harm he had done to Will himself, was his alone, and he treasured that. Will had left many cuts of his own, all directed to the underbelly that Hannibal had greedily opened up for him. He treasured those as well.

“Will,” he whispers, looking into Will’s face and searching for a twitch of muscle, a sigh. It is quiet but unwelcome all the same, and a man kicks his foot sharply and leans forward.

“Quiet,” he hisses.

Hannibal's mouth twitches. He sighs and looks to Will once more.

“Will, wake up,” he rushes, pushing his hands out again to shake the body next to him. Once again he is rewarded with the grabbing of hands, pulling him back, the man who spoke before leaning forward - invading Hannibal’s space. His voice is loud, he smells of gunfire and sweat.

“I SAID-”

“I know what you said.”

He swallows, narrowing his eyes at the man, raising his gaze. He wants nothing, nothing more, than to feel the blood from that man’s carotid drench him and Will. He wants nothing more than to feel the crunch of trachea beneath his teeth, a rush of air as it gushes in, and the breath inside him coming tumbling out into Hannibal’s hungry, clawing mouth.

“What are you going to do, kill me?” he laughs. He keeps his face still, but he can feel a distinct wetness lining the ducts of his eyes. He looks at the man only a moment longer, letting his gaze drift back. He would just like to see Will move. Hannibal’s jaw flexes instinctively. Shoulders lowered, he bends his head down to Will’s, knowing he will be pulled up immediately. It does not matter.

“Wake up,” he demands, the sound of concern creeping over his words just enough to stun himself for a moment.

“I’m here.” It is a small sound. Will does not open his eyes, or cough the roughness out of his voice. His brows furrow, and his face finally winces with awareness. His fingers flex beneath him, they reach out to Hannibal, crawling along the dirt searching for him before they give up and still.

Something is torn open in Hannibal like the blood that wept from his wrists; it spills out of him and coats his body, the feeling of fear and adoration. Mixed together it forms some heady emotion of protectiveness, of tenderness. Hearing Will speak catches his voice in his throat and he stares, lowers his head, pressing in close.

“Wherever here is,” Will rasps and begins to lift himself onto his bloodied elbow, eyes still closed, sliding up to sitting as far as he can. “In an armoured van. You are badly hurt.” His own fingers twitch, they long to touch. To hold Will close as he always did before he pushed metal into his flesh.

The man who held a gun at Hannibal leans forward once more, their eyes locking. “I told you to Shut. Up.”

Hannibal regards him, lifting his eyes to meet in challenge. He smooths his face and looks into the dull blue eyes before him; like a shark’s they are unmoving and uncaring, with less intelligence.

“I need to know that he is okay,” he speaks steadily.

Will had raised himself enough to set his elbows on his knees. Hunching over, he searches here for breath, wincing all the while at the pain. The pain. It seems to cradle every inch of skin.

As apathetic as expected, the armed man finds humor in the mild concern Hannibal presents with his words, his touch. He smiles, a lazy, easy smile and leans further into their shared air.

“That’s sweet. What is he, your boyfriend?” And he laughs, indulgently; all the men do. Their chuckling bounces off the walls of the van, reverberates through Hannibal’s ears. The man looks to those around him seeking approval, soaking in his deluded fantasies of being the alpha. Men are always so easily predictable. Glorified missing links. They pretend to have power they don’t have to protect themselves. But there is always a bigger fish. They are in the tank with some, right now.

Blue eyes have finally landed on him, he can feel Will boring into him as he holds himself upright and he sighs, but Hannibal cannot meet his eyes yet. His mouth twitches once more and he swallows, staring into eyes that crinkle as they sneer before him.

“You’re a child,” Hannibal speaks, raising his chin. He does not spit the words, though he intends to. The man's smile falters slightly as Hannibal continues, “An infant.” His lips do twitch in a gentle snarl, quick, as he stills his hands.

“Your mocking is thus infantile. He is not my boyfriend. This man is more to me than you can dream. He is the moon when I’m lost in darkness and warmth when I shiver in cold. And his gaze will still thrill me, even after millennia.” The men in the van have gone quiet, nothing but the steady pulse of Hannibal’s words fill the air between them all. Their smiles are history to their faces, replaced with frowns and blank stares as Hannibal’s eyes burn them.

“His heart overflows with a righteousness of which this world is not worthy of. I love this man beyond measure and reason. He’s not my boyfriend,” he exhales and grits his teeth.

His eyes meet Will’s who have followed every curve of his mouth, and have traced over his face a thousand times the moment he began to speak. He looks broken, too, open and tired. Hannibal imagines they share the same exhaustion, they have carried it for what feels like a lifetime.

He looks into him, lest Will think he is being anything but honest when he speaks, “He is all and he is more.”

Will’s lips press together. He swallows. He doesn’t avert his eyes.

Hannibal’s fingers skirt up to meet Will’s jaw. He stays still, allowing Hannibal to trace it gently. The men around them have gone still, breathless on a confession they likely have not heard in their time. A sincerity they will never know, to their pity.

“ _Mylimasis_ ,” he breathes, a choking, consuming breath escaping him, and presses his forehead against Will’s bloodied one. Neither are sure what could cause Hannibal to behave in such a way, so open and plain as he has almost never spoken before. Not really. The truth cascading out of him like a poison, uncontrollable, his body wretching from trying to contain it for so long.

Will’s eyes are sad, large and moonlike, but his lips do part and his breath shutters against Hannibal’s.

Hannibal cannot say that he’s sorry. This Will knows all too well. He is, and they both feel it all the same. A mutual understanding between them. Not letting rage, or frustration, nor forgiveness keep them from thinking. From being honest with themselves.

Whether it is Will, or Hannibal, one of them breaks the centimeters that hold them apart, pushing their chapped, cracked lips together. Perhaps they both do, together. It is not a feeling of softness, or pleasure, but rightness as Hannibal’s hand tightens in Will’s curls, as it once did when he held his skull and opened it. Will’s assault into his mouth is rigid and harsh, borne from anger, but much deeper borne from tenderness. He doesn’t think he will ever begrudge Will of that, nor should Will in return.

Their mouths are dry, their skin chafes, and their hearts sing for the seconds that they are allowed this moment. The longing between them smeared finally on each other’s mouths. As they are pulled apart, the stun of the act stilling the four men around them, Hannibal can see Will’s smile. Brief and twisted. It is one he has grown to love, his heart thumping as their eyes meet in agreement.

Hannibal bites through the wrist of the man next to him, pushing his feet into the throat of the man in front of him, causing his gun to point upwards - bullets dinging into the top. Will dislocates his thumb, pulling it through while he pushes his body up and back into the man behind him, feet kicking the gun out of the man in front of him. His hand is free as he reaches back to slam the head of the guard behind him. He can hear Hannibal wrestling the gun from a limp hand, mangled wrist sluggishly weeping blood onto the metal of the floor. Hannibal points it at the man he had kicked. The bullets leave kisses against his neck and he turns, looking to Will.

Will has both feet braced against the man trying to grab him, his gun knocked to the ground, the one behind him is screaming as Will’s fingers have found a home in his neck, squeezing to burst. Hannibal smiles at this, wrapping his cuff around the neck of the one towering over Will and pulling him close to his chest, the chains crushing his windpipe. The sucking in of air that he does as his fingers claw into the metal sounds painful enough, but it is nowhere close to how painful it is for Hannibal to tear into the side of his throat, dropping his body onto the one with the gushing wrist as he tries desperately to straighten the gun, slipping in the warm splash of blood that covers his hand. Will shoots the man whose neck he had crushed, watches as Hannibal kicks the gun away from his victim, and snaps his neck with strong arms.

They look to each other and Will grins tiredly, grunting as he sits himself into one of the seats. Hannibal stands, pressing a hand to Will’s shoulder and smiles as they feel the van begin to slow, pull off to the side of some road.

“It seems our vacation is over,” Will huffs, looking for the key to their cuffs. The warmth of the corpses, or the joy of their shared hunt, fills the back of the van with a visceral excitement.

“The honeymoon is just beginning, though,” Hannibal remarks mildly, offering up his hands to be unlocked. Will eyes him, as he turns the key, he laughs softly before nodding.

A metallic thump assaults the air, the sound of the door beginning to open before them. Together, they smile.


End file.
